


Sometimes They Look So Cold

by emmaliza



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s fic, Angst and Humor, Complicated Relationships, Crossdressing, Drunkenness, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17495831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Robbie and Howard get drunk, put on some schoolgirls' uniforms, and Robbie sees a lot of himself in the other boy.





	Sometimes They Look So Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the story Howard tells in the extended interviews for For The Record about him and Robbie wearing fans' school uniforms together in Japan. Generally angstier than one would probably expect from that premise. Title comes from "Women in Uniform," by Skyhooks.

Rob emerges from the bathroom in a Japanese schoolgirl's uniform, strikes a pose with leg up in the doorway (which makes him wince a bit), pouting mockingly, and Howard – lying on the bed with a bottle of champagne still in hand, seemingly undisturbed by the fact Robbie can see right up his own skirt – bursts out laughing at him.

Robbie laughs along with him, kneesock-clad feet sliding against the hotel carpet. “You don't look any bloody better!” he exclaims, tumbling over unsteadily and putting a hand out to stop himself collapsing on top of Howard on the mattress. “Give here.” He yanks the bottle out of champagne out of Howard's hand and gulps, spilling some down the front of this fan's shirt. Shit.

Howard doesn't stop giggling, trying to push himself up off the bed for a bit, before giving up. “Yeah well, I've got more practice,” he says, and Rob snorts. That's true, but he's not sure it's something Howard ought to gloat about. Howard nicks the bottle back from him, it spilling between their bodies, and Howard's top is just about see-through now, but like, that can't be new for him. Has Howard ever worn a see-through top on stage? Must have done. Robbie can't imagine Nigel wouldn't have thought of that.

“Hey, don't you tease me just because I'm a baby,” he coos, tugging at Howard's skirt for some reason. “Gimme a few years, I'll put on just as many frocks at you, promise.”

“Oh, you're on, Williams,” Howard grins at him, neck of the bottle still between his lips. “You and me, dress-off. Each city, we have to put a different frock on. The others can judge.”

“That's hardly fair,” Robbie points out. “You've got Gaz and Jay on your side, you'll always win!” and he means it as a joke, really, because he wasn't going to depress himself tonight, but there's a bit of a sting in his words he doesn't mean there to be. C'mon, he likes Howard; they're having fun.

Howard frowns. “You've got Mark!”

He doesn't bother to pretend Jay and Gaz wouldn't both always pick him though, Robbie notes. He snorts. “Whatever,” he mutters. Really, he's long since thought Howard's too eager for any excuse to put a frock on; he's not just doing it for a laugh, he really likes it. But it's not like Rob to judge. “You could wear a fucking potato sack and Gaz'd still go on about how hot you are.”

“...Shut up,” Howard says after a moment's hesitation, and it could just be from the drink, but Robbie thinks his cheeks turn a bit red. He tilts his head to the side. Howard's not the hesitating kind. Curious.

“Ah, you've noticed that, have you?” he eventually declares, running two fingers down Howard's wet chest in victory. That makes him giggle. “Think he's always been first to go along with Nige's ideas about when you should take your top off...”

Gaz is always first to go along with any of Nige's ideas, but anyway. Howard knees him in the shin. “You should go easier on him,” he says.

Instinctively, Rob scoffs. Why? It's not like Gaz ever goes easy on him. But he doesn't want to start a fight in this fancy hotel, with fans outside (where did they go anyway?), and so he grabs the champagne again and chugs it, shutting himself up for a bit. His head's starting to feel woozy.

Rob stops, pulls the bottle down from his mouth, something coming to mind, his alcohol-imbued state letting him think straight for a bit. “You should go less easy,” he says, not a hundred per cent sure if that sentence makes any sense or not. “You – I know you don't like being so fucking naked all the time. But they make you do it, because you don't say no. Y-you should stand up for yourself more.”

_Shut the fuck up, Williams,_ he thinks, because he too has gotten out of putting on something stupid by making Howard do it instead many times, but apparently part of him wants to be selfless or something like that. Howard just averts his eyes. “Piss off, Rob,” he mutters, and Rob scowls, annoyed to see his gesture brushed aside like that.

“Well fine then,” he says with another gulp, and they're starting to run low. “Tell you what, next time I'll tell them to send you on like this, dressed up like a pretty little schoolgirl. Fans'd love it, I bet.”

Robbie doesn't know what the fuck he's on about. When does he? He pulls at Howard's skirt again, shoves their bodies together. It doesn't mean anything other than he's having some trouble holding himself up, and it's not like any of them have ever been known for keeping out of each other's personal space, but then they press against each other and – he feels a twitch.

_...Huh_.

He's not even sure that Howard himself notices, but Robbie can't help but be intrigued. He's drunker than he thought he was then, drunk enough he gets all curious – though he'd never have thought Howard would be his type, even if he was that way; Howard's too much like him, really. But that's not the point. Howard is clearly some people's type, after all.

Robbie frowns at himself. The fuck is he even thinking now? If anyone (if Gaz) fancies Howard, that's none of his bloody business. He has no reason to care about it, no reason to get jealous, and no reason to grind himself downwards out of spite.

He gets a choked, confused noise, and he really ought to say something, distract him, tell Howard this isn't what it clearly is, but his head's spinning too much for that. It's okay though. So long as they don't kiss, don't take any clothes off, and for the love of god, don't _come_ , no-one has to acknowledge a fucking thing. He thinks.

Robbie's cock starts stiffening immediately, of course, but like, he's fucking twenty, of course it does. Howard doesn't have an excuse. His blue eyes are swimming, the bottle falling from his hand – but when it rolls onto the carpet, turns out there's not a drop left in it.

_This is a stupid fucking idea,_ thinks Robbie, but that just spurs him on, until he can feel more than a twitch beneath that little schoolgirl skirt. He can imagine the scandal, and it makes him laugh. There have been rumours, of course, but what if they were proven true? Fuck, what would Nige do then?

And Gaz, Gaz'd be fucking furious. He'd pretend it was just a career thing, worried about what it'd do to the band, but nah – Gaz is a jealous cunt, always has been. And Howard, there's a reason Gaz likes Howard so much. Howard, who's funny and naughty and god knows what, but takes his clothes off when told and never ever gets in Gary's way.

Gaz has always hated other people playing with his toys, and Howard is, absolutely, Gaz's toy.

Rob groans, his cock fully hard now, and he's genuinely starting to enjoy himself. He grabs Howard by the waist of his skirt. “Suits you, How,” he mutters. Because it does. Howard looks like he belongs in uniform. He looks like he'll wear whatever you tell him too.

And, just when Rob is starting to lose control of himself, Howard is finally snapped out of wherever the fuck he's gone. “Rob.” And there's a strong hand on his side, reminding him he's just as dressed up as Howard is. Those hazy eyes find him, and they don't look – upset, or anything, no, How trusts him. But they do look confused. “...The fuck are you doing?”

Rob, dragged back to reality, starts to wonder himself. He doesn't fancy Howard, he doesn't think. Likes him, but he's like a brother – hell, they _look_ like brothers. If Rob was gonna shag him, it'd only be out of spite, and... he doesn't want to do that, does he? He likes Howard. He wants Howard to like him.

The last dregs of the champagne hit his system, and in a rush he scrambles off Howard, back to the bathroom.

When he catches himself again, he's puking into the toilet, spilling it down his shirt. _Fuck_. It's not his shirt, it's some poor girl who's been saving all year to come meet him's shirt, and how is he going to tell her what he did to her uniform? She has actual fucking school to go to in this! “Oh christ,” he hears, and there's Howard, a soothing, strong hand between Rob's shoulder blades. “That's alright mate, just – just get it all out.” It isn't, of course not, but Rob's hardly in a position to argue. Howard waits until he's finished emptying his guts. “C'mon, let's get you cleaned up.”

Maybe he passes out then, because the next thing he knows he's being dragged along the corridor, in a t-shirt and trackies – Howard must have gotten him changed, and Rob leans his head against the other man's shoulder. He suddenly remembers who Howard actually is, old, reliable Howard, who wants to look after him even if he doesn't have a fucking clue what's actually wrong, and that only makes him feel guiltier.

There's the loud noise of a door being knocked, and of course, Mark, Howard would drag him straight to Mark's. “Look after him, will ya?” says Howard. “Think he overdid it.”

A pause, and then Robbie hears a smothered snicker. “Should I ask?” says Mark. And when Rob cracks an eye open, he realises Howard didn't bother to change himself. He's come right to Mark's door dressed like a Japanese schoolgirl, champagne stains and all. He's not sure what to make of that.

A little bashful, Howard laughs. “Rather you didn't, mate.” Then Rob is passed to Mark like a sack of potatoes, who staggers under the weight. Howard reaches forth and tousles his hair. “Goodnight, you. You're not going to remember a sodding thing tomorrow, are ya?”

Rob does not answer, pretending to still be blissfully unconscious. The door closes and Mark tucks him into bed, sighing and running his fingers through his hair. Robbie thinks: _fuck you too, Dougie._

 


End file.
